


A Nocturnal Animal

by prairiegod



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games), PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Other, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29210874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiegod/pseuds/prairiegod
Summary: "No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

Jacket was human- despite everything he’d done and despite his portrayal as an unfeeling animal, he had the same needs as everyone else, followed the same Maslow’s Hierarchy model as every other human on earth. He still needed to sleep. 

His sleep schedule waxed and waned like the moon; his relationship with the sandman was the most tenuous of all others he’d forged. Some days he hated sleeping, wanting to stay up to see the sunrise and somehow outrun the hell that would come while his brain was left to its own devices. He would keep his mind active with video games, energy drinks, and various pointless tasks around the safehouse. He would even consider asking Jimmy or Scarface for their strongest vices but never got the courage or right recorded lines to go through with the plan. 

Other days, with blood still covering his hands and the vibrations of gunfire still rattling through his nerves, he would collapse onto the couch in his room. The exhaustion would keep the visions away for at least a little bit. His mind would have its share of manufactured horror during whatever grueling and heart-pounding task he was focusing on, the blood on the floor already running neon pink and the lights whispering his name. 

Normal nights he would perform his usual routine of stretching and taking the wraps off of his hands, then settle into “bed”; his definition entailed the couch in his room and an old blanket found among a pile of spare moving boxes. He would stare at the ceiling and try to ignore the cold of the room until he would gradually fade into NREM. Then he would dream- he hated dreaming.

He was in his old living room, still as barren as he remembered it- and left it. He was sitting on his couch across from the old scratched coffee table. Sitting on top was a basilisk; a massive white rooster with a writhing snake for a tail thicker than his arm and its claws were the size of kitchen knives. It would grin at him with needle-sharp teeth and stare at him with eyes the color of an oil slick on a midnight sea. 

Every time in every dream he would reach out to it. His hands met the ivory feathers and settled around one, usually around the neck. The basilisk would stare with utmost hatred that made him feel like death was creeping up his throat. Despite that he would pluck the feather from the creature’s flesh, his arm moving on instinct and reflex.

The basilisk craned its disgusting head downward and snapped at his hand, needle-sharp teeth scraping against his flesh. He would draw his hand away for a few seconds then be pulled back to the motions of plucking at the feathers of the beast. Each feather plucked resulted in a bite at his hands. Pluck, bite. Pluck, bite. Repeat. Before long the basilisk’s skin would be bleeding to the floor in neon Pepto-Bismol pink. The puddles flickered around the edges like a 3D movie without glasses, as if it was trying to leak from the cruel unreality it was spilled in. 

He would wake up soon enough, hands covered in scratches and bruises and the indents of teeth. He would then start a routine of washing the blood taste out of his mouth and dressing the wounds on his hands. These hellish dreams of jaws and basilisks would happen once or twice a month, but sometimes close enough in time to re-open the old hand wounds. 

There were other dreams too- unpleasant and repetitive as the others. The most prevalent took place in his room; or at least a hellish dreamscape version of it. The only thing familiar was the cold black-and-white tile floor and the faint neon light around the endless-looking ceiling. The fucking chicken was here too. It sat in a heap on the floor, a dead-looking broiler chicken gazing up at him with eyes that would cause extinctions if looks could kill. 

In his hand was a rusty cleaver, a worn version of the one on his weapon rack. **You won’t do it. You’re such a _coward_.** The chicken’s raspy voice taunted him from its position on the floor. It would goad him every time and continue to speak as his shaky arm raised the cleaver and brought it down on its head. Black putrid blood gushed from the limp feathery body and onto the floor. The scent was uniquely awful each time. 

**ha- hahahaha _HAHAHAHAHA_**. The chicken’s head laughed as it became stained with its own rotten blood. It was mocking him. Each time it would say things that would bring him to near tears. Blood flowed out of the chicken’s body like a fountain- it covered the floor and flowed past his ankles, carrying the taunting head like a floating rubber duck. 

He collapsed to his knees and clutched at his ears in a futile attempt to block out the verbal blows delivered by the avian head in front of him, but it was useless. It was in his head. It was a part of him. The blood rose past his chest by now and didn’t stop. He would only wake from these dreams after the putrid and ice-cold sea had risen past his head and pulled the breath from his lungs.

There were other dreams, or at least aspects of them. They lie deep within his head, filed away until his nocturnal mind decided it was time to torture him. There were dozens, just like his tapes. Each for a specific situation, each for a specific punishment. 

Last month he stood on the shore of Honolulu. The sand was bone white, the rolling tides a churning blood red. He was in his military uniform, his camo pants and boots speckled with blood. His white tank top presented a large gash in the side. Ruby red blood beaded from the cut and dripped to the sand below, making a trail that was lapped up by the identically colored tide. The setting sun in front of him was three times its size and radiating with searing heat. 

He looked to his side and there stood his lieutenant, orange hair waving in the breeze. Blood streamed from his eyes and met the sand and tide in a similar way to his wound. He turned to face him. Words bubbled in his throat and just as he was about to say everything left unsaid for years, the sun engulfed everything. The beach turned to shimmering glass and the waves boiled as the shockwaves cut through the air like a hot knife through butter. Hot tears stained his pillow as he woke up, words still caught in his throat. 

All of his dreams involved him being powerless. There was never a time he remembered where a dream was remotely pleasant. Others had talked about their dreams a few times; they involved old friends, familiar places warped in a non-threatening way, aspects of daily life and things they enjoyed. Sokol told him of a dream he had of his childhood dog that became the size of an elk and carried him around the city streets on its back. Why couldn’t his dreams be like that, instead of drowning in a dilapidated municipal pool filled with screaming rats that gnawed at his flesh.

It was probably penance for all he'd done. Maybe it was his mind replacing the prison he was supposed to rot in. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jacket groaned as he peeled himself from the faux leather of the couch, dripping with a cold sweat as if he’d been submerged in a freezing ocean wave. His blanket had been thrown across the room sometime during the night. He looked down at the tooth-shaped indents and reopened scabs on his hands and fingers. Two of the worst dreams in one night. Practically every joint in his body popped as he got to his feet. He wishes he had a proper mattress at least; sleeping on a couch was absolutely wrecking his back. 

The walk to the upstairs area was long and cold. The basement of the safehouse was absolutely labyrinthine, amplified by his sleep-deprived mind to a seemingly mythological degree like the vast maze of Crete. And with the way he was treated lately, he felt like the minotaur. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He was lonely- so, so terribly lonely. 

He opened the generous medicine cabinet and took out the supplies necessary to patch his hands. Gauze and peroxide, a generous donation kept around for household emergencies. He hoped he wouldn’t use it up. The usual tape he used for hand wrapping was still downstairs in the gym area. He’d have to finish getting dressed later. Hopefully, no one else would be there. He always got comments from Sokol about how thin he was or how tired he looked. 

He couldn’t help looking so decrepit. He was a husk of a man, he couldn’t help but look the part. A face like a zombie greeted him in the mirror. Dark circles, pale skin, a generally thin visage. The scar on his hairline was still vaguely visible. He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t looked at himself in- how long had it been? He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember? Was it the bullet? 

He could feel the walls of reality being scraped away like wet cardboard. The warm white light of the bathroom faded to deep blue and the face greeting him was no longer his, but the grinning visage of the chicken- Richard. It was just a mask, once upon a time. Just a latex mask sent to him in a box as a cheap disguise. He didn’t know why its horrific visage stuck around, cemented into his withering psyche like a tumor. It was that bullet, wasn’t it. 

The bullet let it in. Gave it and the others, Rasmus and Don Juan, a home. They lived in his brain now like three animal-headed parasites. 

**You want to be rid of us. You’re desperate to purge yourself no matter the cost.**  
Richard hissed at him, hoarse and gravelly voice sliding past sharp beak-teeth. Its avian face was shrouded in artificial neon shadows, eyes flaming with malice.   
**Finish what the bullet started and all this can be over. A nice drill will do the job.**

No. he was tired of them telling him what to do. He was tired of the intrusive thoughts telling him to do things- to hurt his teammates, civilians, or himself. He tried his best to ignore the orders of senseless violence during the few hours of quiet normalcy he had. He’d let himself be pushed around and puppeted during heists, but not now. Please, it was all he had. He slammed his fist against the brick wall, the skin of his knuckles splitting and an explosion of pain shooting through his arm. 

They won this time. He slipped up and hurt himself again. He already burned himself with his cigarette lighter yesterday and slammed his face into the desk a few days ago. Richard grinned at him with razor-sharp teeth, obviously amused. He could shatter the mirror but there would just be shards, still reflective- more Richards. And his hand would hurt even more. He’d have to replace the mirror too. The corner of his eyes started to sting. No, he couldn’t cry. That would mean that Richard won. He’s not a bullied little kid, he’s not a little bitch. 

He composed himself and crept out of the bathroom, towards the kitchen. He needed something to keep him awake, like a strong energy drink or the like. He treaded across the floor carefully, cold bare feet barely lifting across the tile. He didn’t know what time it was but he didn’t want to risk waking anyone up. He was already seen as a bother by most other members. He didn’t want to piss anyone off. 

“Oh. you’re up early, Jacket.”   
He froze in place, barely registering the other human presence in the room- John Wick. He glanced at the clock on the oven. _4:28_. Oh. He was up later than he thought. 

“Oh- here.” John flicked on the lights, making Jacket wince briefly at the sudden burst of light.   
“Can’t have you stumbling around.” John was wholly unaffected by the change and went back to his book. 

“What are you doing up so early, Jacket? Have you slept at all?”

He froze up. Fuck, he forgot his tapes downstairs. He hadn’t expected to see anyone, or at least be unsuccessful in avoiding another human being. His eyes shot downwards towards the floor in a subconscious attempt to make himself invisible to the one other inhabitant in the room, a truly futile effort. 

“Bad dreams?” 

He shrugged. It was strange how Wick kept trying to keep conversation. Maybe it was a tactic to keep him passive and less likely to attack. Maybe it was politeness- not that he deserved it, really. He was used to being kicked around. He rubbed at his eyes and skulked past Wick, opening the fridge and going for one of the energy drinks. He popped the tab and gulped down nearly half within seconds, the carbonation stinging his throat. 

He settled into the chair farthest from John’s position at the table with his newly acquired drink. The acidic citrus taste helped perk up his senses but he still felt tired to the core, a terminal kind of exhaustion that would probably kill him eventually if he didn’t do it himself. He wondered constantly about how it would happen. Would he trip up in a heist and be left behind? Would he be caught and executed for everything he’d done after years of rotting again in prison? His own hand maybe? Or would the chicken-headed freak named Richard finally break down the walls and do it? 

The light of the room started to get fuzzy around the edges. **Are you afraid to die now? You used to be so indifferent. Since when is life so precious to you? What do you have to live for?** He was lucky he was sitting down right now. The urge to curl in on himself and claw at his haunted skull was overwhelming, and his hands couldn’t help but shoot up to clutch at his ears in an attempt to shut out the voice. Richard was utterly relentless these days, popping up whenever he let his already overburdened and exhausted mind rest. 

Hot tears brimmed at the corner of his eyes. No, no. Don’t cry. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry- don’t show him you’re weak don’t show it- he’ll use it against you. A hand clasped around his shoulder, breaking a little bit of the static. “Jacket? Are you doing alright?” Wick towered over him with an expression of almost fatherly concern. He batted the hand away and nearly fell out of his chair. 

He retreated back to his room as fast as he could, not bothering with skulking around anymore. Richard continued its taunts as he retreated, tears streaming down his face. **Way to go. You’ve ruined another potential human connection in your already lonely life. They already know you’re the Miami Mutilator- they’re scared of you**. He fucked up and broke in front of someone- the gang’s opinion of him is going to be even lower now. What if John tells everyone else? What if he was kicked out? He had nowhere to go. He had no home aside from this little nook in the safehouse basement. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Has anybody seen Jacket this morning?” John Wick entered the common room and gave a small wave to the rest of the heisters milling about, waiting for the evening “festivities” to begin. Clover looked up from her newspaper and early-morning glass of gin. 

“He’s probably in his room doing… ah, whatever the fuck he does. Messing with tapes or shite like that.” She gave a halfhearted shrug and took a swig from her glass. 

“Well, he was acting strangely. He came up from the basement around half-past-4 and grabbed an energy drink. Barely even acknowledged me.”

Hoxton trotted down the kitchen stairs and into the room, toting a cup of tea in one hand and balancing his phone in the other. 

“Sounds like normal Jacket to me. He’s one weird motherfucker.”

“Well, he started staring off into space and clawing at his ears. I tried to check on him but he just- started crying and ran back downstairs. He looked distressed. I’m kind of worried about him.” Hoxton took a seat at the sofa next to Clover. 

“Eh, just ask Wolf to check on him. He’s the only one not freaked out by him. I dunno how he does it. Just looking at the freak’s face gives me the fuckin’ heebie-jeebies.”

Wick shot Hoxton a stern look and shot a glance at his watch. 

“Hey, be nice. He’s part of the gang. Haven’t you ever heard of workplace etiquette?” 

“We’re criminals, Wick. We’re not here to be nice.” John sighed at the comment and muttered under his breath as he left for the shooting range. “Jesus, you’re a handful.”

He ducked into the shooting range and passed through the rows of expertly-kept guns until he found Wolf, nose-deep in another project. “Morning Wolf. Mind doing me a quick favor and checking on Jacket?”

Wolf looked up and rubbed his eyes. “Oh- sure! Haven’t said hi to him in a while anyway. Any specific reason?”

“He was acting weird this morning. Didn’t look all too well. Just want to make sure he’s doing okay but he’s…reclusive. You’re one of the few people who he doesn’t shy away from that much.”

Wolf gave a quick stretch to shake the stiffness from his joints and eagerly trotted down the hallway to the small boiler room Jacket called home. The noise of rewinding tapes or the repetitive sound-effects of NES games was wholly absent. It made his hair stand on edge. Jacket sat on the couch- no, more like cowered. He was still in his usual lounging clothes. His normally stringent and spot-on morning routine had evidently been interrupted in some way. 

Wolf nearly gasped as he caught sight of Jacket’s gaunt face, charcoal-dark circles like bruises under his weepy looking and distant eyes. 

“Christ on a bike- Jacket, you look like hell! Have you fucking slept at all this week?!”

Jacket barely met the Swede’s eyes as he pressed the play button on the recorder clutched in his shaky hands. 

“I am. **_Fine_ ** . _How_ are y-y-y-ou?”

Wolf looked to the hands that clutched the piece of tech; Jacket’s hands were hastily bandaged and spots of blood were blooming through the bandages. His left hand was dotted with deep scabs on his knuckles that looked to be created not long too long ago. His ring finger stuck out at an awkward angle, a sure sign of dislocation. 

“You are NOT fine, Jacket. C’mon, we’re going to see Dallas.” 

Wolf grabbed Jacket gently by his uninjured wrist and he got up without protest, letting himself be dragged along. His head was down the entire time, carrying himself like a kicked puppy. Wolf pushed him past the threshold of the main office with a hand on his back. Dallas got up from his chair and scanned him from head to toe. 

Jacket could barely hold his head up. He was fighting sleep but his determination to not collapse was just barely greater than the exhaustion plaguing him. He was clearly running on fumes for an unknown amount of time. What he presented was the results of a slow and downward decline. 

“You’re in no condition for this heist, Jacket. I’m benching you’re sufficiently healed.” Jacket’s face dropped. Benched? That just couldn’t be. He _NEEDED_ the action, he needed the outlet to release the bottled-up tension accumulated over the course of the week. 

Dallas’s grip on the finger tightened and his face took on a gravely serious shade, his steely eyes burrowing through Jacket’s very being. 

“And if I find out you’ve been running solo, I’m rebreaking this finger. That’s a promise.” 

Dallas taped the relocated ring finger with a sickening pop, the pain making his entire body contort for a brief second. The finger then was properly splinted which left it immobile. Jacket was subconsciously relieved when the bandages on his hands were left alone. God knows what Dallas would do if he saw the bite marks. It already seemed like he was teetering on the edge of being labeled a danger to the team and kicked from the safehouse. 

“Make sure to change those bandages soon. And Jacket- I’d suggest using this time to work on your relationship with Sokol. The tension between you two is a danger to the team. I don’t care how you do it but when you’re off-bench you two better be at least tolerating eachother.”

He left Wolf behind and returned to his room to ruminate over his options. This was awful- he’d be confined to his little dingy space until his finger healed; his rate of healing was already slow lately. His wounds just didn’t heal quickly anymore from a combination of stress and lack of… something that he probably was forgetting- food, maybe. He didn’t exactly have the best diet and he didn’t have the time nor fortitude to sneak anything from the kitchen. It was like he was seeing himself actively falling apart. 

Worse yet, he’d have to deal with... _Sokol_. The man seemingly hated him, always spouting quips at his expense and getting in his face on purpose. The Russian seemingly took his background with the mafia and spun a hatred for him with the few pieces of rumors he absorbed from the others, whose opinions were equally as low. It wasn’t his fault though! He didn’t choose to do this, he didn’t want any of this to happen. He didn’t wake up one day and choose violence, he wasn’t born into it. 

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“Does Dallas...make jokes often? Because if not then WHAT THE FUCK?!” Sokol paced around the room anxiously, idly scratching at the back of his neck and mumbling in his native language. The tension emanating from him was nearly palpable to the others in the room. Sokol wore his emotions on his sleeve almost every day- it was easy to tell when something was on his mind. The other heisters milling about in the common room took notice of the Russian’s body language as soon as he left Dallas’s office with a rather sour expression.

John Wick was the first to acknowledge Sokol’s condition, an expression of concern and mild amusement plastered on his stern face. “Is this about Jacket?” 

Sokol ceased his pacing and grinded to a halt in front of Wick. “Does it not look like it? I refuse to be locked in a room with a-a-A MANIAC!” He flung his arms up in emphasis, barely avoiding contact with the brick wall beside him. “Have you ever looked him in the eyes? _Nothing-_ there is _nothing_ behind them.” 

Hoxton snickered and elbowed Clover from his place on the couch. “Maybe Dallas will bust out the get-along sweater.” Clover’s face lit up and she returned Hoxton’s gesture, nailing him right in the side of the ribs. “I would pay good money to see that shite. Sounds absolutely fuckin’ hilarious.” 

The image of being in close physical proximity to Jacket made Sokol shudder. He would much rather take a hockey puck to the teeth than breathe the same air as the chicken-masked man. His fists clenched with brewing rage, his nails digging into the calloused palms of his hands. 

Wick put away his book and patted the couch next to him. Sokol gingerly took the hint and drifted away from the others, joining the older man on the couch. John sighed. “Sokol, he’s human just like everyone else here. Have some courtesy.”

“Are you sure? I’ve never in my life met a man who never speaks.” 

“There’s lots of reasons people don’t speak, Sokol- it’s more common than you think. There are other ways of communicating besides spoken word.” 

The tense expression on Sokol’s face melted away. He leaned eagerly into John’s words like he was a young boy again, hooked on a riveting story. “You seem...knowledgeable about this.” 

“There’s a reason I’m fluent in ASL. I’ve met and worked alongside a lot of diverse people- and you know how traumatic my profession can be. I’ve seen the most talkative people completely shut down due to damage or trauma. You don’t know what Jacket went through but… I sense that he’s gone through something similar.” 

Sokol thought back on the few encounters he had with the man. Jacket carried himself in a specific way- like someone who was broken down and rebuilt in an institutional sort of way. The rumors of him being ex-military seemed a little more palpable now that he thought about it. Jacket’s past was a complete mystery but this theory gave a little more clarity to what made him tick. 

Wick placed a gentle hand on Sokol’s shoulder, breaking him from the train of thought he was briefly consumed in. “Just try and take the time to listen to the ways he communicates. Just be patient with him and I’m sure you’ll break through that shell of his.” 

“Fine. I’ll take your word. But you bet I’m going to at least stay vigilant around him.” Sokol turned on his heels and left the room, the brunt of the ambient noise leaving with him. John Wick let out a short sigh and reopened his book. Clover tossed a quick glance at Hoxton that seemed to demand his attention which he reciprocated within seconds. 

“50 bucks says that one of em’ breaks the other’s nose.”

* * *

  
  
  


Jacket paced around his room manically, thoughts racing around his already sore head. He needed to leave before the other heisters came to their senses and sent him away- leaving of his own volition would hurt a little less than banishment. His empty stomach churned with fear. The world outside the safehouse and away from the gang was something he’d almost entirely forgotten and shut away, connections eroded by fear and damaged memory. Without the cover of more powerful figures he’d surely be snatched off the streets, retried, and executed. His head was evidently still plastered in the FBI’s database. 

Maybe he could reunite with the gang of other animal-masked killers- The Fans, as they called themselves. But he wouldn’t know where to start looking. They’d probably long since left the mountains of Appalachia where they all hid out after the jailbreak. 

But he needed to leave. Before he hurt somebody. Before it got worse. He ducked under his couch and slid out an ammo box, its metal exterior covered in dents and faded stickers. It was the only physical reminder of his life before the killings besides his trademark jacket. He popped the lid, revealing a stash of bills and a single faded polaroid of two happy-looking soldiers. 

He rarely used the money garnered from heists- there simply wasn’t that much he wanted to spend; he had spent his entire memorable life being frugal. The majority of his earnings went to the vault, but he always kept enough around as emergency money; a bug-out-bag if he could call it that. Enough for several full tanks of gas at least. 

He flipped through the hefty stack of cash. With this much, he could drive all the way into Canada- or maybe Mexico?. Take the roads less traveled until he was _somewhere_ out of United States jurisdiction at least. Put down roots for once...

No. Maybe there was a chance of salvage. Maybe he would be able to stay if he played nice and got rid of the tension with Sokol. But how? Talking to him was out of the question- the Russian man’s discomfort with his way of communicating left much unsaid. He turned over the polaroid in his fingers and was struck with an idea- he still had the language of his actions. 

The late-night drives before ~~the bombs the guns the pain~~ enlistment were ones that he personally cherished, his last comforting memories. Sokol might think the same. It was worth a shot. He placed the rest of the money back, pocketing 60 dollars worth; enough for a fresh tank of gas and anything else he may need for the plan ahead. 

He remembers the months after the jailbreak staying in a too-small cabin in the Appalachian mountains; being shaken awake by Cory and led outside eagerly to the sight of his beloved car sitting in the driveway, still bearing the harsh graffiti and smashed windshield but also bearing a wad of cash duct-taped to the hood for repairs. “An early birthday gift” Tony called it until Ash and Alex accidentally let it slip that they didn’t actually know his birthday. Truth was, he didn’t either. 

He got up from the floor, joints creaking in protest- he must’ve spaced out a bit. He mentally made a checklist of a few tasks to complete before undergoing the last-ditch effort. Maybe he’d get gas early- or make a quick trip to the store. He needed rest desperately; sounded like it was melatonin gummies for dinner that night. Maybe a cigarette if he felt like it too. Hopefully, the dreams wouldn’t bleed through.


	5. Chapter 5

For once Jacket felt rested- maybe even a little bit positive. For once he hadn’t had any severely upsetting dreams, only being able to remember fragments of surreal ones that usually came when he consumed melatonin supplements. His bleary mind could only recall something about an army of fish. His plan was still fresh in his mind- the plan with Sokol in mind. 

The lights slowly began to dim around the edges. **He’s a problem, not a solution. Just take your money, kill him, and leave. You don’t actually care about him, do you?** Richard’s figurative claws wrapped around his neck, making his chest feel tight. No, it wasn’t real. He just needed to ignore the hateful voice. His ears already stung from swatting and scratching at them earlier in another futile attempt to mute the voice. He’d have to live with them for now and stay strong. 

It was easy to drown out the voices sometimes, but he would never be able to stop himself from being startled by the headless corpses of mobsters out of the corner of his eye, nor swat at nonexistent flies buzzing around the lights and occasionally landing on his skin. Today he would have to just shut off his brain and pray to a god that he didn’t believe in for everything to go right. 

He was always never very good at in-depth planning; he never had any hand in any blueprint stages of heists, he just went along with whatever he was told. Doing something other than reacting to stimuli and following instructions was out of the norm and seemed far out of his comfort zone now that he thought of it. But Dallas technically did ask for this to happen, so he had no choice but to deliver. This was sort of like his own solo heist; there was a planning stage, an objective, and a payoff. 

He glanced at the small digital clock laying on his floor, the faint numbers reading out 11:28. Damn, no wonder he felt so well-rested. News of his “benched” status must’ve spread and he must’ve been allowed to sleep in today. There was plenty of time to plan and get ready at least. But what should he do?

He already knew that Sokol was… more high-maintenance than him. The Russian indulged in clothing with triple-digit price tags and went out to expensive events during breaks from heists- a life that Jacket never understood or even remotely knew. He personally could never go to a fancy restaurant or spend a wad of money on expensive wine without feeling severely out of place. 

But Sokol was courteous too, and had a curiosity about the US. Showing him another facet of the country might impress him to an extent. Whenever he had time he would drive around the city and take in the sights. Washington D.C. wasn’t like Miami or his old home- maybe it was a good thing. He missed the beach and the sun, sure. But he would be dead if he stepped foot in either place ever again. 

Now wasn’t the time to dwell, though. Well, maybe- he still had 7 hours; but it would be a bad idea to sour his mood before the night even started. 

* * *

The spring season was unusually slow this year. Only one team consisting of Dallas, Hoxton, Chains, and Houston was out on a three-day escapade. The majority of heisters were in “leisure mode”, either at their personal homes, out for the evening, or milling about the safehouse doing whatever they could to occupy themselves. 

Jacket sheepishly walked into the room, steps light enough to not be heard. He wouldn’t lie to himself, he was honestly terrified of how Sokol would react. 

“ _Falcon_.”

Sokol looked up from his phone, startled. 

“Oh? Hey... Jacket. Need something?” Sokol was surprised to see the shorter man standing by the couch as he didn’t even notice him enter the room. 

There was something about Jacket’s body language that conveyed anticipation. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes pointing anywhere but Sokol’s. One hand was shoved in his pocket and the other was tightly wrapped around his signature dictaphone. 

“ _-please follow_.”

“Hm?” 

“ _Something to-_ show you.”

Sokol reluctantly got up from the couch and glanced back at the others in the room as if to ask if anyone else knew what was happening. Confused looks were thrown around the room but no one uttered a word. 

“Wait, what did you want to show me?” 

“ _We will arrive shortly_.” 

Jacket glanced backwards at the taller man, noticing his hand hovering near his pocket. He gulped and only hoped that he was anticipating a phone call, not reaching for a knife. They passed through the garage and out into the lot where other vehicles were kept. Towards the end of the driveway out of the reach of the house’s light was another car that Sokol hadn’t even noticed. Jacket reached into his pocket and unlocked the car.

“Wow- that’s a fancy looking car. Have you always had this around?”

Jacket nodded and opened the gullwing doors, Sokol’s face lighting up with curiosity. He settled into the driver’s seat and beckoned him into the passenger’s seat. Sokol settled into the leather passenger’s seat, pulling the door shut beside him. The car rumbled to life and began to pull out of the driveway, starting on the long road into the main city. 

The car remained silent only for a minute or so until Jacket reached into the small dividing compartment and pulled out a tape, slotting it into the radio. After a few button presses and the interior was filled with the noise of slow but rising synths. Jacket tapped his taped fingers against the steering wheel and slowly bobbed his head along to the song. 

Sokol couldn’t help but subtly tap along to the song too, taking in the wordless tones. “Hm. Never thought I’d enjoy computer music that much.” Jacket gave a quick smirk and reached down to turn up the radio. He looked back up at the road. The entire sky was painted shades of orange and pink, the sun a massive red giant hanging low in the sky. Brief deep purple shadows streaked along the inside of the car, being the warped silhouettes of traffic lights or trees. 

Sokol had never seen the city like this. Granted, he’d never really paid attention to the scenery as he was always stuffed in the back of a windowless van or staring down at his phone in an UBER. It was honestly dreamy- so dreamy that he forgot what he was doing in the car in the first place. He shifted his focus from his window to Jacket’s face. The man honestly looked… at peace for once. 


	6. Chapter 6

“So, is there a plan? Er… a destination maybe?”

Jacket nodded and the car began to steer off its scenic path, heading down a smaller branch of highway. A small pang of concern came over Sokol but quickly dissipated as the neon lights of a gas station came into view. The car pulled into a spot and Jacket got out, beckoning the Russian out as well. A warm spring breeze ruffled his hair as he stepped out of the vehicle. 

Jacket waited for Sokol to follow before pulling his dictaphone out of his pocket. “ _I do believe refreshments are in order?_ ” Jacket held the door open for the Russian and the two found themselves in a small convenience store. Sokol’s eyes lit up. “Been wanting to try more American food. Great idea, Jacket!” Sokol began to browse the aisles excitedly while the other man stayed behind for a brief second. 

His gaze briefly drifted to the counter and the employee manning it. A bitter taste began to form in his mouth and he could feel his grip start to slip; the buzzing of the fluorescent lights began to be replaced by whispering. Small black dots began to drift around his vision; the familiar shapes of flies and ash. There at the front sat his lieutenant, bleeding all over the counter and mingling with the red of his hair. 

He shuddered and wiped at his face with a shaky hand. Shit… he needed to loosen up. He couldn’t ruin this. He trailed Sokol into the aisle and attempted to busy himself with looking at the products on the shelves. His lack of a proper meal for that day made all the selections tempting. God, he needed a more consistent eating schedule. 

Sokol was apparently enamored with the sheer amount of choices. Within the short time he was away from the Russian he had already chosen a candy bar- one with a gaudy foil wrapper and subtly patriotic logo. The man reached onto a shelf and pulled a small bag from the hanger, turning back to face Jacket. 

“Are these any good?” 

Jacket pointed at himself then gave a thumbs-up gesture as if to show his approval for the product. Sokol tucked the bag under his arm and bent down, reaching around on one of the lower shelves. He abruptly drew his hand back from a light-obscured corner before cautiously reaching back. “мех? о, котенок! маленький друг!”

A small chubby cat crawled from the shelf and brushed against Sokol’s legs. His face lit up and he started giggling, reaching down to pet at the cat. Jacket couldn’t help but smile- seeing the hotshot Russian fawning over a small bodega cat was jarring, but in a hilarious way. He’d seen Sokol quite literally tear his way through a herd of SWAT officers but here he was, cooing at a chubby cat rolling around on the linoleum. 

The mood immediately felt lighter- not only because of the cat’s presence but because the tension between the two was almost wholly absent. It was like they weren’t coworkers or as if they didn’t know about each other’s pasts- they were just two human beings having fun. The cat continued to follow them around the store like a miniature security guard as they loaded up with snacks, perching on a nearby shelf as Jacket scoured one of the drink coolers. 

“No beer?” Jacket gave a quick shrug and jingled his car keys in Sokol’s face. “Back in Russia they counted anything under 10% as soda.” The two men carried their snacks to the counter, Sokol still giggling and rambling about Russia’s drink selections. For once Jacket was actually happy to listen to someone- Sokol seemed more than happy to just talk about his home country and the little things he loved about it. 

He tried to avoid looking directly at the man at the counter; he didn’t want to see his old lieutenant haunting him. The clerk probably thought he and Sokol were odd- a six-foot Russian man rambling about beer brands and a man who couldn’t make eye contact as he paid with a 20 dollar bill. He couldn’t be more relieved as they were finally able to leave with their snacks and get back in the car. 

Sokol was already distracted half by the text on his candy bar and half by the scenery rushing by, the city alive and bustling just beyond the road. Jacket attempted to keep a hand on the wheel and open his iced tea with his other hand with great difficulty- having two fingers non-functional was frustrating to say the least. “Here. Let me assist.” Sokol grabbed the can and opened it, thrusting the drink into Jacket’s still open hand. The car ride continued in relative silence besides the crinkling of wrappers and maybe a muffled ‘whoa’ from Sokol as he noticed different angles of the view. 

The car turned from the main road and continued up a small path flanked by thick trees on both sides. The wall of green gave way to a small lot near a worn-looking park, clearly not the flashy municipal budget that most DC infrastructure had. The trees were cleared in the middle which allowed the city to be seen in all of its glory, its streets and monuments still intelligible among the sprawl. Sokol set aside his snack and stared ahead at the city, eyes wide and full of wonder

“ _If Washington is your final destination, we say: welcome home._ ” 

“I guess D.C. is my home now. You’re right. It’s so… beautiful. How did you find this place?”

“ _Monitoring_ . _This is the wrong way._ ” 

“Wait- I don’t follow.”

Jacket rummaged around in the glovebox and pulled out a small notebook and pencil, turning a page and writing out of Sokol’s view. He turned back and presented the notebook when he was done so Sokol could see it.

_here. i know the tapes kind of suck when it comes to specifics. it’ll be better for communication now. i drive around a lot during breaks to chill out and i took a wrong turn. i usually come up here to think. theres a lot to think about lately._

Jacket’s writing was… not _exactly_ chickenscratch but still eligible. He couldn’t help but giggle to himself a little bit- ha, _chicken_ scratch. Sokol had to deal with worse handwriting before but he always saw it as a good challenge to decipher. 

_i just want to let you know that i dont hate you. i wanna put all the hostility behind us. i know you probably hate me for what i did but i dont hate you. youre a good person and youve done nothing to me but be scared of me which is reasonable._

Jacket’s words made him finally realize that the start they got off on was wrong- it was wrong to introduce himself by throwing all the rumors of the carnage Jacket caused back at him in a joking manner. Jacket misinterpreted it and ran with it, causing a solid half a year of reflecting hostilities back at eachother. A half of a year that friendship could’ve been cultivated in. It felt like a kick in the heart. 

“Oh- wow. I never knew you felt this way, Jacket. I’m sorry for being so hostile towards you. I just thought I was being funny back then but you are...right to be pissed at me for that. I’m sorry I came off as shitty.”

_its okay. im not good with jokes and shit. sometimes they go over my head. are we cool now?_

“Totally, Jacket. We’re friends now?”

He nodded hard enough to make himself dizzy.

Jacket extended his hand and Sokol gladly took it, smiling widely at the gesture of peace between the two men. Jacket could feel his lips part in the biggest toothy smile he’d cracked in years. Now he had another friend in this world, and one that made him feel… so safe. As long as he’d been in the Russian man’s presence there wasn’t a single grotesque interlude from the cruel council of animal-headed monsters living in his head. He didn’t have a single thought of swerving into traffic or doing something rash; he was just living in the moment. 

The two settled back in their seats, digging back into their snacks. 

“Y’wanna… try some icebreakers? We might as well get to know eachother a little bit more.” 

Sokol gave a playful bump at Jacket’s shoulder as he turned another page in his notebook, his pencil at the ready. 

“Favorite felony? Jimmy asked me this one. I thought it was funny.”

_arson or blackmail. vandalism is entertaining but not my style. its fun going with sydney to draw dicks on government buildings._

“Hm. Never expected you to be the ‘blackmail’ type. Mine’s got to be grand theft. Having lots of money and pissing off bigshots is fun. That’s why I joined the gang after all. Say, how did you join?”

_wolf found me i guess. you know my reputation. im good at clearing rooms._

“You really are- I admit, I can’t help but admire your skillset. I’ve never seen someone with your… talents. I mean, Wick’s supposedly killed men with pencils but I’d never imagine I’d see someone kill a Cloaker right out of the manhole with a single claw hammer strike.”

_ thats the nicest thing anyones ever said to me really. _

“Well, people should start saying more nice things about you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Being around Sokol was… indescribable. There was this odd feeling of simultaneously having his armor stripped off but feeling safer somehow. Was this what having friends was like? It must be- genuine admiration from another person felt better than Newport menthols, better than piss-cheap fortified wine, better than hotboxing his car with cheap weed in an Arby’s parking lot. 

The entire moment was surreal, almost impossible. A disgruntled mute man who exterminated the entire Miami Mafia like an anthill, sitting a foot away from a 6’2 Russian with a slightly overfed ego- well, it was like day and night essentially. Any other time and circumstance and they surely would’ve killed eachother in a heartbeat. 

“Jacket? See something?”

Oh- he must’ve spaced out. He snapped back to his current reality and saw Sokol’s fingers inches from his shoulder and he couldn’t help but feel a cold sweat start around his shoulders. Human contact was something he wasn’t used to- something that he wasn’t sure that he was capable of withstanding ever again. ~~What that cop Pardo did it ruined him to the core~~ He needed a cigarette. 

Before he bothered to light up his own he extended one to Sokol. Another gesture of kindness never hurt anyone- he thinks.

“I’m good. Not a smoker. I’ve tried before, never saw the appeal.”

It made sense in his mind. Sokol was a hockey player who obviously needed as much lung capacity as he could get. God, the man was built like a racehorse- all lean muscle, probably just as capable of shattering someone’s skull with a single kick. 

Before even bothering to look for his lighter in his cup holder he rolled down the window, cool night air flooding the car. It would be rude and inconvenient to flood his car and his passenger with unwanted carcinogens. The oh-so-envied cigarette was sparked to life with a few flicks from a dying plastic Bic lighter and he savored the smoke filling his lungs. 

He wasn’t meant to live long, he was sure of it. Everything life threw at him seemed hell-bent on killing him- this was a better way of slowly killing himself. It was one of the few things he could initiate on his own terms. The gang was nice but he couldn’t stay forever. Nothing good ever stayed. He would have to run away from all of this eventually- for his own safety, or to save others from himself.

Looking at Sokol made him sad suddenly. His chiseled face, the scar across his nose and the subtle one across his lip complete with subtle, almost microscopic radial lines from past sutures slightly reflecting the light from the moon above. It was weird how scars did that, how they shined at the right angle from the unique way skin weaved itself back from the brink of destruction, lacking the delicate nerve endings and flexibility as the original skin had.

The feeling of heat dangerously close to his knuckles brought him back to reality. He brought his dangling hand from the outside of the car door and saw his cigarette was nearly burnt to the filter. He thought it strange how Sokol hadn’t mentioned the silence until he saw the man scanning the back of a bag of peach rings.

  
“The fuck? How do they flavor these things without fruit?” 

Jacket took the last drag of his cigarette and flicked it to the curb before turning a new page in his notebook.

_chemicals maybe? nothings real in food here anymore_

“Man, not to be insulting but this American food- it looks like plastic and sounds like it would cause cancer.”

_i dont think the FDA would allow it but they also let companies put arsenic in baby food in the 50’s i think_

“I don’t know why, but this is making me miss Kompot. I should make some soon.”

_whats “compote”_

“Kompot. K-O-M-P-O-T. It’s like fruit punch, but homemade. And not full of the artificials with weird names. My mama and I would go down to the market every winter and buy all the bruised fruit for cheap, then boil it and let it cool overnight. Wish I got my mom’s recipe before I left. I miss her.”

_you always talk about missing home. why can’t you go back?_

“My mom… well- I don’t want to break her heart again. She cried for days after I got booted from the team. She wanted me to be set for life and be happy but each scandal made her trust me less and less. The gang is good but I could never tell her about it, obviously. She’d probably have a heart attack if I told her I robbed casinos for a living.”

Sokol’s expression was pained behind his steely gray eyes, absentmindedly chewing at his lip. Jacket was caught off guard- he didn’t mean to open a sore spot or pry too deep, oh god. His progress at getting on Sokol’s good side was probably reset. All he could do was reach over and gently pat the Russian on the shoulder; a nonverbal "sorry" by his definition.

“It’s okay. It’s been two years now. Nothing I can do now but live my life.” He tore the seal off the bag of peach rings with his teeth and offered the bag to Jacket. 

“Want some?”

Jacket grabbed a small handful of the candies and popped one into his mouth. They were slightly stale and tough, probably from being on a shelf for an untold amount of time.

“Don’t some of these have stuff in them? Like...uh- weed?”

_you mean edibles? im not a weed expert but Bodhi is- i mean, he smells like weed sometimes. im pretty sure he can get some stuff if you ask him._

“Might bribe him for some one day. Never tried it before- stuff like that was hard to get in St. Petersburg.”

_can stuff like that even grow in russia?_

“Russia isn’t a fucking ice sheet, of course plants can grow over there. Didn’t they teach you about… climate zones in school?”

_they barely even taught me climate, especially not the temperature requirements of fucking weed. i thought it was a tropical plant ok? even though i never saw it around miami._

“You’re from Miami? What was it like?”

Sokol’s eyes lit up with curiosity for a brief second before he realized the ramifications of that action- in the bubble of tenuous safety he had briefly forgotten of the atrocities Jacket was known for. But…it seemed like he was genuinely curious. 

Jacket wished he could forget the entire chapter of his life that took place in Miami but alas, after everything that happened to him it was one of the few places he still had a relatively clear mental image of. He wished he could remember his old neighborhood, his school, the park he and his friends hung around, but it was like those places never existed to him. 

_it was always super warm even in the dead of winter. the only real difference was the length of the days and the temperature of the ocean but people still surfed in december. i thought the humidity would be the worst part but i got used to it after a month. its also true that your hair grows longer in hotter climates._

_i miss being able to leave my window open in the afternoon. couldn’t do it in summer evenings though because of the bugs. or the fear of being robbed even though i lived in a third floor apartment and had basically nothing to my name. or the fact that chameleons always got onto my window sill and i didnt want them inside._

“As much as I love my home I’ve always wanted to go somewhere warmer, you know? Once we make it big that is. I’ve always wanted to go to Cyprus.”

_youre what people would call a ‘Snowbird’- but i dont blame you. guess its just human nature to look for greener pastures. maybe literally in some cases. being around plants is a little relaxing. i miss palm trees._

“You mean the ones that grow coconuts? I’ve never seen one before.”

_not all of them grow coconuts. lots of them are planted alongside highways and i doubt youd want one falling on your car. have you ever seen a coconut? theyre bigger than a mans head._

“I’ll have to add that to the bucket list.” Sokol mimed pulling out a notebook and writing in it, mumbling “stare...at...coconut. Check.” 

_theres a few conservatories in capital hill, i think._

“We’ll have to go check one of them out sometime. Maybe it’ll help you feel a little less homesick. I've heard that bonsais are expensive too. Maybe Bain would let us heist a few one day. Could you imagine that?”

The suggestion of spending further time with Sokol made his chest swell. This was friendship- this really was. And it felt good. It’d been less than a few hours and he was already acting like they had been friends since the beginning. He'd succeeded in his mission and then-some. He could stay in the gang and have one more person to vouch for him.   
  



	8. Chapter 8

Light radiated from the few foggy windows of the safehouse, belying the warmth and life that lay inside. The upgrades supplied by a few Continental associates turned the old warehouse into a home- the only one he’d had for a while now. The DeLorean stopped in its usual location under the old rusty streetlight that had nearly been grown over by vegetation. 

Jacket’s cheeks hurt from smiling, something he rarely ever did. A cloud of general positivity hung over their heads and continued to drift along as they walked up the driveway towards the safehouse. He and Sokol talked for hours, through passed notes and nonverbally, with shared songs from a mixtape and over a few snacks. They entered through the side door where Houston was rustling through his toolbox. Rust sat across the room in his little corner, a beer in one hand and a newspaper in another.

One of his thick eyebrows raised at the sight of the two men, known to be mortal enemies, walking side-by-side like old friends. But, as Rust usually did, he stopped paying attention after a few seconds. He grunted a small “evening” and took a swig of his beer. 

They passed through the staircase and came out into the brightly lit common room, full of life- and by life, it meant normalcy. Everyone was sprawled across the couches doing regular things, like reading or focusing their attention on whatever was playing on one of the TV’s. 

Clover looked up from her book inquisitively. “Damn, no broken noses? Shit, bet’s off.” She nudged Sydney with her elbow, breaking her laser focus on the kaiju movie playing on the TV. 

Sokol cocked his head. “You guys had a bet going? Over what?”

“Thought you and Jacket were gonna like, go somewhere to fight to the death. Are you guys suddenly friends now?” 

Sokol glanced at Jacket and patted him on the back hard enough to throw the shorter man off-balance. “Actually, yeah. As a matter of fact, we’re on good terms now- wait. If you suspected me and Jacket were going to go off and kill eachother, why wouldn’t you do anything?”

Clover shrugged, turning back to her book. “You’re grown-ass men, you can deal with your own problems. Anyways, Dallas and the others called. They’ll be back in-” She glanced at the decorative clock hanging on the wall, attempting to decipher the stylized design. “Uhh...11 at most.” 

Sydney readjusted her position on the couch. “Beers are in the fridge if you guys want any. Might be a few gatorades too. I know you don’t like to drink that much, Jacket.” 

Sokol shrugged off his coat and made his way up the stairs to the kitchen while Jacket flung himself onto the couch. A smile was still plastered across his face, evident to the other inhabitants of the room.   
“So. You two hotbox your car or something?” Sydney looked smug, as if she was attempting to psychically goad an answer out of Jacket. 

He dug the notebook out of his pocket, writing something down before crumpling the page and tossing it in Sydney’s direction. _i cant smile without you thinking im high, can i?_

She flung her hands up in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I’ve just never seen you this...bubbly before.” 

Sydney was right- he always looked like an emotional husk. Sokol came back downstairs, toting a beer in one hand and a gatorade in another which he tossed towards Jacket, who barely caught the drink without fumbling. He flopped down beside Jacket on the couch and flicked the cap off his beer. 

The distant rumble of the garage door opening turned every head in the room and everyone leaped from their spots on the couches. Sokol flung his arms up in excitement, pumping his fists.   
“Wooo! The boys are back in town!” The drinks were forgotten on the coffee table as everyone hauled towards the garage.

Hoxton clambered out of the van, dropping a few overflowing bags on the concrete floor below. “Yeah, we are. Now someone come help with these bloody bags. Feels like my arms are gon’ snap clean off.” Dallas emerged from the passenger’s side and moved around to the pile of bags. 

“How’d it go?” Sokol asked while hoisting two bags on each shoulder. Dallas stretched and cracked his back with a groan. “Like taking candy from a baby. Had to extend by a few hours because of how much extra loot was just sitting around.” 

Wolf stepped past the threshold of the workshop door and came jogging over to Hoxton, taking one of the bags from his over-encumbered arms but not before giving the British man a quick peck on the cheek. Hoxton’s ‘resting bitch-face’ broke and he smiled broadly, reciprocating the gesture of affection. “Missed you, Wolfie.” 

The Payday Gang reminded him of the group who rescued him- the Fans, as they called themselves. The similarities behind the character dynamics, how much everyone secretly appreciated eachother despite the appearance of animosity or conflicting personalities; like a big family with dubious morals. It was easy to see the elaborate weaves of interactions, feeling like he was removed from the narrative happening around him. 

Watching from the sidelines was fine by him, sometimes. He couldn’t handle too much noise, or the proximity of too many people at once. Secondhand fun was still fun, after all. Human social queues were hard sometimes. And especially with the melting pot of cultures that was the gang, it would take him years to break through and learn every little crumb of information. Time he didn’t really have. 

Jacket came over and grabbed a bag, struggling with the weight. He wasn’t used to lifting much- Sokol and Dragan were definitely right about him needing to bulk up a bit. Dallas noticed his subtle struggle and handed his bag over to Chains. 

“Jacket. You probably shouldn’t be holding something that heavy with your finger still adjusting.”

Jacket shrugged, copying Sokol’s method of hoisting the bag onto his shoulder in order to keep the weight of the straps off of his hand. The weight of the bag nearly took his breath away, but he had to keep the illusion of strength in front of the team leader. “I suppose that works.” Dallas shrugged as he took a few more bags, but the concern and intrigue in his face still hung around. 

The gang started to head towards the hallway, stacking the bags on a cart. 

“You guys can start. Jacket, meet me in the hallway real quick.” 

A quick jolt of panic went up Jacket’s spine as he followed Dallas into the hall outside the vault. “It’s okay, you’re not in trouble. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

He was relieved to not hear anything about an inevitable exile, or an extension to his benching, or any rumors about him.

“How’s your finger holding up? No stiffness, pain, anything abnormal?”

Jacket shook his head, holding up his hand and moving all of his fingers as to present their function. 

“That’s good. Dislocations don’t take much time to readjust. Just make sure to stretch it every once in a while. So, I’ve heard that you and Sokol have patched things up. From what I’ve heard from him, he considers you a good pal now.” Dallas reached out and patted him on the shoulder. Jacket felt his chest swell with pride. 

“I’m proud of you for taking initiative, Jacket. I’ll be in the basement getting things sorted out, if you need me.”

His nightly routine began at the same time- change into something comfier, stretch, mentally prepare himself for another night spent on a pleather Ikea couch, mentally remind himself to look at futons, then unwrap his hands and patch whatever blisters or bruises he got during the day- but when he looked down, the bandages were wholly absent. 

Fuck. He forgot to redo his bandages; he had already undid them earlier. Dallas had a view of his mangled hands the entire time he was hoisting bags and getting his circulation back in order. 

On the side of his hand was an angry red puncture scar the shape of teeth, caused from the scabs continuously being reopened by his nocturnal panics and continuous action. And Dallas saw them. He saw the way he looked at them. No pride was attached to these scars- he wished he could show his hands without feeling like a million angry eyes were on him. 

Other heisters showed them without issue- and some with pride. Sokol’s prominent facial scars, the dog bite on Sydney’s calf, Bodhi’s scars from his various escapades and trials, the scar along Sangres’s neck, Rust’s scarred and calloused hands, John Wick’s missing ring finger. All of them had a story that they were willing to share. None of them looked at the marks on their body with shame. Meanwhile he couldn’t rewrap his hands unless he was totally alone.

Somewhere in his mind a clock was ticking. That little voice in his head echoing that something was going to happen. Paranoia couldn’t end the night, not after how good it was. No, he wasn’t going to be punished by his own stupid brain for daring to peek out of his shell for a day. 


	9. Chapter 9

The room was cold. His paper-thin jumpsuit did nothing to protect him from it. He’s already weak from the hunger strike. They did nothing about it but send a guard to come and stare at him like a zoo animal. He just sleeps all day now. 

He’s already lost 15 pounds. He can feel himself slowly withering away.

His wrists were cuffed to the table. The guards left the ankle cuffs on. His whole body was sore from holding the same position for hours. They wouldn’t let him leave, nor eat, nor sleep. He wished he had his stress ball. 

He hates it here. Pardo enjoys it. He’s been smiling the entire time. He’s not even asking questions anymore. Just taunting him. Digging into his wounds, insulting the people he’s lost- not even his former girlfriend’s memory was spared. 

Pardo openly talked about how much he wanted to skin him alive, mount his head on the wall as a trophy. It was evident in his mind how the detective was the true Miami Mutilator- cruel. calculating. psychopathic. 

Pardo leaned across the table, briefly glancing at either side of the room. At the cameras. He smiled, a toothy predatory smile that made his very soul shudder. He felt so small, so helpless. His face was mere inches away from his. Pardo’s breath smelled of cigarettes, blood, and venom. It was foul. 

“When I walk out of here, those tapes will be erased. Why? Because I have the power of my words. People respect and fear me- as a man of justice, not some animalistic killer.” The cold metal of a revolver barrel pressed against his forehead. 

“No one will ever believe you. You’ll go back to your little cell and have all the time in the world to stew over this. But you won’t be able to touch me. Go ahead. Try something.” He couldn’t move. He was frozen. 

“I fucking dare you, freak.” The words felt like glass against his skin. Like he was being carved apart. 

“You’ll be dead by the end of next year- but I doubt they’ll hold you for that long.” Tears welled up at the corner of his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t get away. 

*click* He pulls the hammer of the gun. 

“You’d look prettier if the bullet had hit its mark.” 

He’s crying harder. He’s suffocating. Pardo pulls the trigger. 

*click*

It’s empty. The revolver is empty. 

Pardo’s rough hand wraps around his neck. His fingernails dig into his skin. He starts to squeeze. He’s so much bigger, stronger than he is. He used to be strong but the inactivity has brought on a sort of atrophy. 

“Your grave is already dug. You’re not going to go down as a martyr. Or a ‘great national hero’. You’re a miserable, disgusting little failure who kills without reason- like an animal. And you’re going to be put down like one.” 

He can’t breathe. Oh god it hurts please.

His vision is going dark around the edges. He’s choking on tears but he can’t spit them out. It’s the end. 

Pardo lets go. His breath returns, painfully. Like swallowing glass. 

Pardo gets up from the table. He looks back with malice and hatred. 

“Start counting your days. You’re getting the death penalty.”

He could feel the bruises blooming on his neck and the veins in his eyes recovering from almost bursting. Each heaving breath stings like acid and his tears feel like hot magma across his skin. But he can’t stop crying. 

Every inch of skin that Pardo touched burns. 

He’s ruined. 

* * *

Jacket woke up heaving on the floor, hands shaking from a mixture of rage and abrupt adrenaline.

He didn’t want to remember that- god, why did his mind replay that again. His skin burned, his chest felt tight. He could feel panic flooding over him like ice-cold waves. 

He scrambled to his feet and ran upstairs. He needed to hide- nothing could touch him, he knew in the back of his mind. But instinct and routine was the driving force here. The first-floor bathroom was the smallest space in the safehouse. He needed a space to wedge into. He needed safety or else he was going to die. 

He slammed himself past the door and locked it behind him, pressing his entire weight behind it. The lights remained off but he managed to navigate with the light from the small night light plugged into the wall socket. He shimmied into the space between the bathtub and the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. The safehouse was too large. Too many places for people to get in.

One point of entry- and he was hidden. Whoever entered wouldn’t see him and would leave. Or they’d kill him. It was a universal coin flip. It wasn’t like a Cloaker would come through the bathtub drain but he was still afraid. And then, he realized something. The safehouse had been raided before- several times. People knew about this place. His “home” wasn’t safe. It never was. 

Nowhere was safe. 

Not even his own fucking head. Something was broken up there- his brain was hell-bent on making him miserable. He couldn’t remember anything, time just slipped through his fingers like sand, he couldn’t talk to others; he was isolated. 

What was the point? Why did he choose to keep living if the universe destined him to die in agony? To live as a haunted fucking shell? 

**See? Now you get it.**

**You killed to avoid being killed- you wanted to die with dignity. As if going by your own hand is a more honorable choice.**

The rooster mask bobbed in his vision, standing over him and reflecting in the mirror. It just stood there, taunting him. 

**But to hell with honor, right?**

He was less afraid about Pardo getting his claws on him as he was more infuriated now. Staring at the animal head, at the blood-red light bleeding from the mirror, at the figure ruining his life. He unwedged himself from his corner and stood eye to eye with the masked figure. He tried to swing at the figure, fist clenching hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. 

But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t will his fist to connect or even raise above his waist, as if his hands were still cuffed to that cold metal table. Instead, he collapsed to his knees. Hands and elbows meeting the ice-cold tile, hands meeting and tugging at his hair in an attempt to distract himself from the god-awful presence in front of him. 

Nails cut into his scalp, his other fist slamming into the tile. Drops of blood started to meet the white ceramic as more pain shot into his body. How much noise he was making, he didn’t know. His ears were clouded with static and whispers, detached from a body. It was agonizing. He felt sick. 

He scrambled on the tile as he turned around and threw himself towards the bathtub behind him, bile being purged from his system as his body shuddered from head to toe. It hurt, god it hurt so bad. Tears and blood from his scalp joined the bile in the tub below. 

He couldn’t keep doing this. Once his body was empty of sickness he slumped to the floor, feeling drops of blood meet the cold tile. The urge to numb everything, to slam his head onto the corner of the countertop or to use one of the razors Jimmy kept around to plunge himself back into a comatose state- a state where he couldn’t be touched, where it didn’t even matter if he went back to the hands of his tormentors. 

But instead, he fell asleep. Hugging his legs to his chest on the bathroom floor. Letting whatever cruel fate he was destined to come to get him as it saw fit.


	10. Chapter 10

“Jacket! Open up!” 

*THUD* 

Jacket opened his eyes, wincing. Pain flowed into his barely conscious limbs like cold water. 

He could hear a distant, repetitive noise- well, maybe not distant. It was hard to place where it was coming from; wait, where even was he? “Jacket! If you don’t fucking open this door you’re paying for the new doorknob!” The noise of fists slamming against the steel bathroom door finally kicked his slow senses into their usual prey-animal state of overdrive. Right. Bathroom, locked in apparently. 

He pried himself off of the bathroom floor and crawled to the door, undoing the lock. Weakness only let him sit up for a second before he had to lay back down; pain radiated from his entire upper body, culminating in his fists and throat. God, what the fuck happened last night. He was queued in by the taste of bile still lingering in his mouth and the small bits of dried blood clinging to the tile.

The door was opened slowly, dim ambient light sweeping across the small room. “Jacket? Fuck, what happened to you? Why the hell is there blood?” Sydney stood in the doorway, flanked by Bonnie and Jimmy. All of them had expressions of concern, despite Bonnie holding a small dumbbell that was probably going to be used to break off the doorknob. 

Sydney extended her hand but Jacket refused to take it, only adjusting himself into a sitting position. “Shit, did you slip?” He hoisted himself up by the basin of the sink, getting a good look at the blood dripping down his forehead and temple and staining his shirt. It was still sticky to the touch, staining his hand. He turned his hand over and saw deep bruises, the skin on his knuckles torn away.

He only nodded. He could never describe what he just went through without the fear of ridicule, or a retaliation against his perceived instability. He finally accepted Sydney’s hand and let himself be hoisted up. “I’m worried about you, Jacket. Sure you’re doing alright? Not under the weather?” He shook his head. He felt like re-heated corpse meat, but he wasn’t going to state that. He still needed to clean up, and the others evidently got that. 

They moved elsewhere without another word, except for Sydney. “Need any help?” She still looked worried. It wasn’t like Sydney to be concerned like this. It weirded him out, to be frank. He waved her away and nudged the door closed. He parted his blood-streaked hair, washing out the remaining viscera and a few chunks of stray hair. The cold water stung the cuts in his scalp- god, how did his chewed and short fingernails achieve cuts so deep? 

The lack of action was building up into disastrous levels- it was like an addiction. Sydney and Bodhi were the biggest adrenaline junkies that he had ever met but they could survive a slow season- then what was this drive he had? What was this… this craving for violence? It was like a lifeblood, something that he was sick without. He needed a break. He needed just one more hit to get him by. 

* * *

The break came only a day later when Wolf and Dragan came to his room toting the quarry of their latest escapade- the elusive snitch, the reason for the disintegrating sense of safety among the team and all of Hoxton’s stress. Matt Roscoe, the rat. **Rats. Disgusting creatures, parasites worthy of a less than swift death. You would know a thing or two about rats,** **_wouldn’t you_ ** **?**

“We need something out of him. Fucker’s not talking.” He knew the drill. Matt was slammed onto the couch in his room without a word and Dragan left, leaving Wolf in the room. His terrifying mask hung from his other hand by its straps- he was evidently going to join in the upcoming extraction. He came toting a drill and a small box of god knows what. 

The rat writhing on the couch below, completely at his mercy- it gave him a satisfaction that it really shouldn’t have. There wasn’t a man handcuffed to his couch, it was an outlet. A method to take out the building rage without having to subject his rapidly collapsing body to a full-scale heist, a form to disassociate from its true identity and imagine someone he hated instead. 

He could just envision Pardo already battered and bruised at his mercy, or maybe Richter. Both people who deserved more than torment- but Matt did deserve what was coming for him. The raids, the increasing force, it was all on _him_ . Despite their distance, Jacket and Hoxton had at least one thing in common: they **fucking hated rats**. 

Wolf loomed over, anchoring him at least a little bit and serving as a reminder to refrain from outright killing Matt, and probably to listen too in case the rat spilled any names. Jacket never really listened once he was “in the zone”. Because once his mask was on, it wasn’t him anymore. 

Masking up was sort of like becoming another person for the other heisters; in a way the masks symbolized leaving their regular lives behind for the task at hand. But for him, it was like pulling off his skin to replace it with a second one. Masking up was throwing his mind- and by extension his humanity into the gutter and hoping he didn’t get gunned down too soon. 

Staring at the burnt and battered hostage on his couch through the beady, dead eyes of his mask made the bat in his hands feel heavier and more powerful. But he set it aside for now. The room wasn’t ready. Wolf stepped aside as he methodically moved around the room, moving everything he valued away from the predicted “splash zone”. He loved that zebra rug too much to ruin it with the blood of a useless piece of human meat. 

With a heavy thud he rolled the rat onto the floor, hearing his head make contact with the concrete. **He could already smell the fear emanating from the body on the floor** . **But it could be** **_stronger_ **. He paced in circles, making an effort to drag the bat across the concrete floor. He ceased and stopped in his tracks, slamming the bat against the concrete right against Matt’s ears.

He’d tortured his way through a small army in an effort to get into this gang- he’d had plenty of time to perfect his craft. The psychological aspect and the appetizer was over. If he wanted to psychologically torment Matt, he would’ve dug out the Waco Siege tapes and superglued earbuds into Matt’s ears. Or just handed him over to Wolf. But he needed to release some tension, not wait. Besides, the gang needed answers. 

The sound of hardwood contacting flesh sent his endorphins spiking. Matt whimpered and sputtered as the bat made contact with his already battered body. Time wasn’t a thing anymore when he was in the zone- it was defined by actions and sequences. The torment he inflicted was a specialized routine- cause pain, give the subject a breather as to not kill them from shock but keep the suspense, use the senses; a foot in the middle of Matt’s back, pressing his half-scorched face into the cold concrete with the tip of the bat. 

He didn’t know how long he had been at it until the rat screamed out a name- or maybe a date, a location. He didn’t know. He raised the bat again until a hand swiftly pulled it away. “He’s already spilled, Jacket. We can’t risk killing him.” He stared down at the rat on the floor, blood spilling onto the floor from his split lip. He delivered one more kick to the bound man’s side just to send a message. 

Wolf placed a hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough. I can take it from here. He hasn’t said all he can.” Jacket left the room, feeling his muscles ache and legs stiffen despite his pacing. Despite what he just did to the rat thrown into his den, he felt...unsatisfied. Like hunting for a deer and only coming back with songbirds. Rage was still boiling within him. He needed to expel that energy- **he needed to kill. He needed to feel the life drain from someone’s body.**

No, _he_ didn’t need to. The monster needed to. He pulled off his mask and dropped it to the ground in front of him, slumping down the wall and to the floor. His hairline was dripping with sweat, stifled from ambient air beneath the latex mask. He was exhausted, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed something _better_ . Something _bigger_. 

He took a short breather and walked with purpose to Dallas’s office, notebook in hand. He brushed past a pacing Hoxton and slammed the page down on the hardwood desk. His writing was more rough and scrawled than his usual tiny chickenscratch, like deep gouges in a piece of wood. 

_I WANT IN ON THE NEXT LOUD HEIST_

Dallas at the piece of paper and then back up at Jacket. His expression was one of cleverly disguised intimidation as he took a deep breath. 

“Are you sure about this?”

Dallas’s question echoed in his head. Was he sure about this? Was it really  _ him  _ that was asking, or was it one of  _ them _ ? He couldn’t back out of this. Dallas saw what he did to himself; the inactivity, the incident in the bathroom, all of that was tripping him up. He couldn’t get rusty or else he would be out on the streets- exile meant death. 

“Wolf told me Matt spilled an address and a name. Bain’s analyzing it right now but from the looks of it we’re gonna have to go quiet for that one. Next best thing for you is a simple ‘fund refresher’. Got word that a new diamond chain opened up near the mall. Up for that?”

He nodded hard enough to hear his neck crack. Jewelry heist job- it sounded so simple. He loved smash n’ grabs more than any other type of job. Full of adrenaline, maybe some more challenging guards if the recent Anti-Payday initiative was really funding every place that held valuables. 

“Bain said he’s gonna be busy for the next three days to work on leads.”

Jacket’s heart sank. Three days- three whole fucking DAYS? That was too long for him to realistically handle but he couldn’t exactly tell Dallas his complaints. He would just have to wait this out.  **You waited for a year in a concrete box.** Okay, he could handle this. He’d handled worse. Maybe he had some time to practice and work on his skills. 

Despite this, he didn’t leave the office feeling any ounce of optimism. Waiting wasn’t something that was good for him, really. He spent a year in prison bouncing a stress ball off the wall and slowly going into a state of atrophy. 

He went back down to his room, his body suddenly screaming at him for rest. The night spent on the bathroom floor didn’t leave him restful, that’s for sure. His shitty IKEA couch and fraying airline blanket looked so comforting in his mind. He made his way back down to his room, feeling his muscles already straining from growing exhaustion. 

He was hit with a sharp spike of disappointment when he saw Wolf and the rat still present in his room. Wolf had a scalpel pressed to the rat’s forehead, his mask peppered with drops of blood. Even though he had spent the last… god knows how long tormenting the rat, he suddenly found himself not wanting to know what was happening.

He found himself on the balcony, 3 cigarette butts at his feet and another already in his hand. The sun was already setting, making the entire area appear a deep moody orange. It was quiet; no screams, just the distant sounds of the highway drifting through the wind. It was relaxing- but he couldn’t help but feel like this was the calm before the storm. 


End file.
